As a child I was told to make the four corners
of the house my masjid. But whenever I faced

the qiblah, my feet would unmask their heathen lust.
For real, I wasn’t unreligious but all time, at the mention

of football, the feet developed some spasms,
irresistible — same as the alluring voice of the muezzin.

Once, I would tug behind the kitchen door, awaiting Mother’s
assent to watch a football match; her face, burned with flame

while preparing iftar. What can she say to a boy the simplest
of logic nutmegs? A boy lusting after the food of the feet

while the food of the mouth drives her nuts. A boy lacking
the knowledge that intoxication, in whatever form,

is haram, especially during Ramadan. Sure the origin
of dilemma is wanting: a child cries for a toy gun when

the day’s meals are not assured; the father admonishes
his low ambition, claiming the family needs a real gun

to battle out with hunger. That is, the price of freedom
reads as this: a soiled personality equals survival.

This is my conviction: freedom is a misnomer — say,
it’s the only free thing that sells for a price; a mother

drowns to keep her baby ashore; a father embraces
an arrow aiming to shelter in his son’s bosom; &

a widow is barbecued, so her daughter can keep
the lineage. In all cases freedom is the jaws of death.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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